Indian Captive

by Lois Lenski

  They all stood together, huddled in a pack, waiting. Soon the Indians left the house and crowded round. The glaring, painted faces came up close and Molly’s heart almost stopped beating. Though none but her father was bound, she realized now for the first time that they were prisoners. Then she saw that with the Indians there were white men, dressed in blue cloth with lace ruffles at their sleeves, speaking French in hurried tones. She counted. There were six Indians and four Frenchmen. Were the Frenchmen wicked, too, like the Indians?

  What was going to happen next? What would their captors do with them all—this little band of women and children, and a man with arms tightly bound? Would they soon all be stretched out on the ground like Neighbor Wheelock? Or were the Indians making ready to be off with them?

  Molly looked at her mother, but her face was so changed by grief and fear, she scarcely knew her. She looked at her father, who had so recently boasted there was nothing to be afraid of and she saw that he was afraid. With fear in her eyes and in her heart, she cried out weakly, “Ma…Pa…”

  But they neither looked at her nor answered a word.

  2

  The Long Journey

  “OH WHERE ARE THEY taking us?”

  The words, an anxious cry, rose to Molly’s lips, but no one there gave answer.

  Words poured from the Frenchmen’s lips in swift torrents, while they waved their hands and arms. The lace ruffles at their sleeves made changing patterns in the air, as they pointed up and down the valley. Indian voices now, deep-throated and guttural, were mixed with the Frenchmen’s high-pitched, nasal tones. Over their shoulders, Frenchmen and Indians stared backward. Were they alarmed and anxious?

  A decision arrived at, the command, “Joggo!”—“March on!” was given. The confusion of words faded away and heavy silence came down. Only the shuffle of moving, feet—feet shod with hand-cobbled, cow-hide shoes, pressing the bare earth of the farmyard, and now and then the gulp of a stifled sob. Huddled together, tramping on each other’s heels, like a flock of uncertain sheep, the frightened people walked.

  Molly turned back her head and looked. For reasons known only to themselves, the Indians had not burned the house. There it stood just as always, homelike and inviting in the morning sun, with smoke still coming from the stick-and-mud chimney at one side. There stood the well-sweep, the grindstone, the corncrib. There stood the barn—behind those walls of log Old Barney, the cows and calves, the sheep—all left alive, alone, with none to feed or tend them.

  Past the well-sweep the little crowd walked, past the log buildings, the bee-tree, the zigzag rail fence—the rail fence that bordered the corn field. Molly loved the corn, best when the stalks were high above her head. She loved its gentle rustling, the soft words it spoke, as she walked between the rows, pulling the ears off one by one. She loved to feel the soft, warm earth ooze up between her naked toes. At the sharp memory of it all, she was seized with sudden pain.

  “Oh, Pa!” she cried, but her mouth, so twisted and crooked now, was scarce able to form the words. “Oh, Pa! You said come what may, today you would plant your corn! The seed-corn was shelled and ready—the whole big dye-tub full. You said we’d stay and you’d plant your corn today. We must have corn to eat. We can’t go away…like…this…”

  But her father walked like a man in a dream and if he heard, he gave no sign. Outwardly he looked the same. He wore the same fringed deerskin hunting shirt and leggings, the same coon-skin cap upon his head. But his forceful, fiery, boastful spirit—that was gone.

  “Hush, child!” said Mrs. Jemison. “’Tis best not to speak to your father now.” She shifted the baby to the other arm and took Molly’s hand in hers.

  Molly stared over the rail fence and took one last look at the field that was not plowed, at the field that would not, despite a man’s brave boasting, be planted to corn that day. Would it ever be plowed, she wondered? Would it ever be planted to corn? A grim foreboding seized her and she gripped her mother’s hand the tighter.

  No more words were said, for there was not time to speak. The Frenchmen and Indians divided themselves into two groups: One group went ahead of the prisoners, the other followed after. They seemed to have but one idea—speed. They went ahead and followed after, urging, pushing, rushing the little band forward, ever forward.

  Perhaps they wanted to put many miles between themselves and Marsh Creek Hollow, where stood an empty cabin, with door a-gaping wide, with the smoke from a cooling chimney dying out to a lean, thin thread. Perhaps they feared that the restless horse in the barn or the helpless cows and sheep might cry out and tell the story of what had happened; might call to a handful of resolute neighbors to be up and follow after and avenge the wrong done there. Perhaps even, they had seen two boys drop a knife beside the grindstone, leap to their feet and run for help. Whatever the reason, on and on they pushed the little band.

  A tall, gaunt Indian, straight as an arrow, led the way. Another, short and stocky, with bowed legs, walked behind, whip in hand. When the children lagged or stopped for a moment to draw breath, he lashed the whip around their legs. An old Indian followed still further in the rear. With a long staff he skillfully picked up all the grass and weeds broken down by the hurrying feet, to blot out all signs that along this way two families had so unwillingly passed. At first, Molly wondered where they were going. Not on any known trail, of that she was certain—not on the trail through the woods to Neighbor Dixon’s, not on the Sharps Run trail or any of the others. Below the clearing, they were herded along, wading through the waters of Conewago Creek, and down the bed of the stream for some distance. Then through a thicket and into an unknown meadow, heading west, with the morning sun full on their backs. Molly knew there were mountains to the westward and soon saw blue ranges ahead, looming high up on the sky-line.

  After that, the girl neither knew nor cared where they went. All she knew was that they kept on moving, walking and running as fast as they could go, suffering sharp blows from the whip of Bow-Legs, with each attempt to snatch forbidden rest or ease the pain of too-quick breathing.

  At first, hunger had pierced her and the thought of not having eaten since the night before seemed unbearable. Then hunger passed and with it all other sensations. There was only one thought now—to keep going, to keep going without pause or rest.

  Betsey, who had been carrying three-year-old Matthew, suddenly dropped him. Heavier and heavier he had grown with each step until he fell from her tired arms. His short legs, sturdy enough at most times, were not equal to a flight like this. They wavered unsteadily, then the forward thrust of a Frenchman’s leg threw the child headlong.

  There was no one to catch him up but Molly—her mother already had one baby in her arms, her father’s hands were bound and useless. Mrs. Wheelock and Davy had their two small girls to hustle along. There was no one to catch up little Matthew but Molly. She bent her back and with a wide curve of her arm, swooped him up. She pressed her chin into the warmth of his soft brown hair and held him close. By and by his sobs grew fainter and he slept on her heaving shoulder.

  Long afterwards, there was one thing that Molly was to remember—the tender beauty of that fair spring morning on the Pennsylvania meadows—April 5, 1758. More than the terror of the Indians’ war-whoop, more than the shock of sudden death and capture, the pain and suffering of rushing flight—or by very contrast with these horrors—the beauty of that April day stayed always with her. The beauty of that sweet April day, when all the buds were bursting, was shattered by what happened and cried out in protest against it.

  All day long, the captives traveled without food or water, never stopping once to rest. Westward they moved, climbing up and down the hills, pushing their way through tangled brushwood and deep forest, splashing through brooks and streams. Night came at last when they could see and move no more.

  In an open spot in the woods they fell down upon the ground, exhausted. Although the Indians carried food which they had taken from the Jemisons’ own cabin,
none was brought forth or offered. No fire was laid, no shelter built. There was only the ground, a hard and bitter resting-place, to give cold comfort. There they slept within a narrow circle surrounded by their ever-watchful captors.

  Too soon, too soon did marching orders come again, before tired muscles had renewed themselves. Long before daylight the weary people were started on their way, hurrying as before. At sun-up a stop was made for breakfast. Packs were opened and bread and meat were passed around. Famished now, after a whole day’s starving, the women and children ate.

  Molly moved to a place beside her father’s knee and held out a piece of bread. It was rye-and-injun bread, baked in the Dutch oven at home, bread that spoke, as she could not speak, of home. She held the bread to his lips—his bound hands could not hold it. But he turned his head away and would not eat. Silent despair engulfed him. He would not eat or speak. Did his boastful words of so short a time ago come back to taunt him now? Did he wish he had listened to Neighbor Wheelock’s warning, to all the warnings that had come before?

  So little time was taken for breakfast that by mid-morning Molly could scarce remember they had stopped at all. Hunger struck her with full force and she wondered if she had ever eaten and what their meal had been. Somehow the taste of food—her mother’s wholesome, home-cooked food, was gone forever from her tongue. She took turns with Betsey, carrying little Matthew, until her arms, benumbed and aching, could carry him no more.

  At noon, as the captives approached the nearest mountain, they saw a small fort nestling at its foot. But hopes of rescue died before they were born when they saw the place deserted. The once-strong logs were sagging, the corner look-outs sunken and decayed. ’Twas then that Thomas Jemison spoke. “That might be Fort McCord,” he said. “I heard tell the Indians took it a year or two ago.” That was all. His lips were parched and dry. The sound of his voice was dull and lifeless and struck terror to Molly’s heart.

  Towards evening speed was slackened and again they came to a halt. Through thick overhanging branches, they followed their leaders into a cheerless swamp. Water oozed up as each foot pressed the grassy hummocks. Out from the moss-covered, black water, spikes of skunk cabbage poked their ghostly heads. It was not a place to camp, not a place to rest or sleep—oh, why should they stop here? But at the word of command, the tired people sat down. Bread and meat were brought, but no woman or child reached out a hand. The food lay in a heap, untouched.

  Suddenly Mrs. Jemison spoke and her voice had a spark of her old energy and spirit. “Children! We must eat the food that’s set before us and thank God for the gift. There’s no knowin’ what we face tomorrow, but whatever ’tis, we need our strength. We mustn’t lose heart—we must keep up courage. Now’s the time to be brave. Give us bread, Molly, we will eat while we can.”

  The little ones stopped crying when bread was put into their mouths.

  “Oh, Pa, won’t you eat, too?” asked Molly.

  She held bread, sweet, inviting bread up to his mouth, but again he would not eat or speak. He looked once at his daughter, but his eyes seemed not to see her.

  When the food was gone, there was naught to do but keep on sitting there—sitting there in a little circle on the wet and soggy ground, leaning on each other for comfort and support.

  They hadn’t sat long when the old Indian shuffled up. He came to Molly, where she sat at her father’s side. Bending over, he took off her shoes and stockings.

  He handed her a pair of deerskin moccasins and pointed to her feet.

  “Oh, Ma!” cried Molly, filled with fear and dismay. “Oh, Ma, what is he doing? What are the moccasins for?”

  Then she saw little Davy Wheelock standing beside her—Davy Wheelock, wearing soft moccasins on his feet.

  Silently Molly slipped one moccasin on, then the other.

  “They’re prettier than shoes,” said Davy, shyly, almost proudly. “I like the pretty colors. And they feel soft. My feet was gittin’ so tired, a-walkin’ so far in my cow-hide boots. I like soft moccasins better, don’t you, Molly?”

  Before she had time to reply, Molly heard her mother speak. She heard her say the name Mary, which she used only on rare occasions. “Mary, my child…” Her mother paused, as if to catch her breath. Molly turned to look at her. Above the full-gathered homespun gown, with snow-white kerchief and apron, she saw the deep blue of her eyes. She heard her mother speaking in hurried, breathless words, each word weighed down with pain. But under the pain was a kindness, a kindness so deep and complete it pierced her heart. Molly was to remember those words of her mother’s and how she looked when she said them, to the very end of her life.

  “Mary, my child,” her mother said, “the Indians are a-takin’ you away from us…You and Davy…are a-goin’ on with them…What’s to become of the rest of us, only God knows—we are in His hand. It looks as if your life would be spared…but they’re a-takin’ you away from your family, from white people of your own kind, from everything you’ve ever known!

  “I don’t know where they’ll take you, but no matter where it is, may God go with you! Make the best of things and be happy if you can. Don’t try to run away from the Indians, Molly; don’t try to git away and come back to us. They’d find you for certain and kill you…Oh, promise me you’ll never try it…

  “No matter where you are, Mary, my child, have courage, be brave! It don’t matter what happens, if you’re only strong and have great courage. Don’t forget your own name or your father’s and mother’s. Don’t forget to speak in English. Say your prayers and catechism to yourself each day the way I learned you—God will be listening. Say them again and again…don’t forget, oh, don’t forget! You’re a-goin’ now…God bless you, Mary, my child, God…go…with…you…”

  The words fell like heavy blows on the girl’s numb spirit. They fell so quickly, so unexpectedly, she could scarce comprehend their meaning. But her body, so straight and strong, went suddenly limp. Like a young tree bent well-nigh to breaking by the rush of a mighty storm, the girl trembled from head to foot, then recovered herself and stood up straight again.

  She saw Davy standing in front of the old Indian and knew they were waiting for her to come. As she hurried to join them, the pain in her heart became so great she could not bear it and she burst into tears.

  “Don’t cry, Mary!” called her mother’s voice behind her. “Be brave, my child, be brave! God bless you…farewell…farewell…”

  Then Molly looked back at the little group through her tears. She had to look—how could she go off and leave them sitting there? She saw Mrs. Wheelock on her knees stretching straining arms to her boy Davy. She saw white-faced Betsey with the baby in her lap—and all the little ones. She saw her mother with a look of not fear or pain, but only kindness on her face; and she knew that her mother would save her from all she was to suffer if she could.

  She saw her father—her father whom she loved so dearly. He seemed to come out of his stupor for a moment and to realize what was happening. He lifted his head and smiled at Molly, and words came again from his dry, parched lips: “The Injuns’ll never hurt you, Molly-child! Why, when they see your pretty yaller hair a-shinin’ in the sun, they’ll think ’tis only a corn-stalk in tassel! They’ll never hurt you! Remember that, Molly-child!”

  Molly smiled back, thinking of the happy time when first he had said those words. Then, with her family’s calls of sad farewell in her ears, she walked along with Davy and the old Indian and soon left them far behind.

  It was a long time before the old Indian stopped. At last he found a comfortable camping-place and spread beds with soft hemlock boughs. Was he not cruel like the others? Was he trying to be kind? For the first time he spoke and his words were English. “Go sleep. No be scairt!” he said, pointing to the beds. Molly looked up into his eyes astonished.

  All night long she kept her arm round little Davy’s shoulder, while the Indian watched near by. The children said their prayers and cried together, then they talked awhile.
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  “Oh, Molly, he’s fallen asleep now. Let’s get up and run away. I want to go back to my mother,” begged Davy.

  “Ma said we’d only be killed if we tried it,” answered Molly. “She said ’twas best to stay with the Indians.”

  “Let’s go back to Marsh Creek Hollow then,” said Davy. “My father will be there by now with the troops. He’ll chase the Injuns away.”

  “Davy,” Molly spoke slowly, “we could never travel in the wilderness without a path or guide. We’d die…we’d starve with no food to eat. If we stay, the Indians will feed us, I think…”

  “But I can’t walk on again tomorrow,” protested Davy. “My feet are sore and bleeding.”

  “The nice soft moccasins will help,” said Molly. “Yours are prettier than mine.”

  “Oh, won’t I ever see my mother again?” cried Davy.

  “The others may catch up with us in the morning,” replied Molly, but she said it with a sinking heart, remembering her mother’s farewell words.

  “Molly, I don’t want to go with the Indians, I’m afeard…” wailed Davy.

  “Don’t be afeard, Davy, don’t be afeard!” said Molly. She remembered how great was her mother’s fear of the Indians before they came; and how, when they came, she met them with calm courage. Courage was better than fear, Molly said to herself. Courage helped not only yourself but others. She must have courage, not only for herself but for Davy. “Don’t be afeard, Davy, I’m here with you.” She urged him to lie still until morning and was relieved when at last the boy fell fast asleep.

  The next morning there was no sun and fog patches were everywhere. The Frenchmen and Indians who had been left behind came up, and Molly and Davy saw that their families were no longer with them. What had become of them? They pressed questions on the pitiless Frenchmen, on the old Indian who had spoken the few words of English, but received no answer. After a breakfast of meat and bread, rain began to fall, but it did not stay their progress. The Indians led the two children on as fast as they could travel, still taking every precaution to conceal their trail.